


Singing Fingers

by havisham



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drinking Games, Early Work, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know that bit in Return of the King when Éomer was definitely scoping Legolas out? This is what happens after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Singing Fingers

**Author's Note:**

> LOTR movieverse fic with Legolas + ~Insert Male Character Here~? No, don't run away! I tried to keep the cliches to a minimum.

Gimli went down like a mighty tree - all height-considerations put aside. He was down and out for the night. “I win,” said Legolas happily and set his mug down with visible relief. Éomer opened his mouth to say that clearly _Gimli_ had won – surely the point of the drinking game was to drink much as possible? But Gimli's belch – rattling the empty mugs and table, interrupted him.

“I suppose,” Legolas said, looking dubiously the dwarf's prone form, “I should put him to bed. We are, after all, great friends. Now.”

Éomer shrugged before he remembers his duties as a host.  
“I shall do what whatever is needed to help.”  
“Good. Grab his feet.”

* * * 

Gimli was tucked in, nice and snug in bed – well, a pallet in the chamber reserved for the Fellowship. It seemed like a poor way to end the night, to stare at a slumbering dwarf… Éomer, feeling slightly churlish, asked if Legolas if he would like to take a glass of wine or two in his own chambers. Secretly, he hoped that the elf would decline.

But he was destined for disappointment, for Legolas nodded, a serene smile on his face.

 

There was only one bottle, half-hidden in back of the wardrobe. As vintages went, it wasn't a very good one – more sour than anything, and Éomer reflected that the wine coming from Dol Amroth had become rather bad of late.

It was as if wars ruin absolutely _everything_ worth having.

“I'm sorry, but it seems the Worm's men must have been here. They took everything that wasn't hammered down.” They have settled in low-slung settee, too heavy to be moved by Wormtongue's toadies. A white sheet was haphazardly thrown over it.

Éomer then lapsed into silence, feeling rather forlorn. His father's armor, his mother's jewelry had all gone from him. 

Legolas, acting on impulses known only to himself, decided to give the man a pat on the shoulder. Only he missed and stroked Éomer's chest instead. They stared at each other.  
Somewhat unsteadily, Éomer said, “Careful, Master Elf, or else there will indeed be a spear in your future.”

Legolas retreated a little before he lit up, comprehension dawning on his fair face.

“That's a joke,” he said.

Éomer wondered not for the first time, if all Elves were so … ah, uniquely dense – in certain areas – such as thinking or speaking --- as Legolas seemed to be. It was very doubtful. They were supposedly an very intelligent race, after all. (Though some of their history gave cause to wonder. ) But no, it was possible, nay, probable, that Legolas was simply a very special elf...

Of course, he could not tell for certain, because Legolas was the first elf he had ever met.

“I apologize, my sense of humor can be flawed sometimes. And for... before. I was under a lot of stress. You know. Being banished and all, didn't help matters. So. Sorry about that.”

Legolas said, getting at the heart of the matter, “Do you often refer to your … ah -” he made an expressive gesture and mouthed – _down below_ – “As a spear?”

Perhaps the elf was not entirely without a sense of humor. A sly one, at that. A man with a sense of humor could not be a stupid man. It must be the same for elves. Surely?

(He felt that he has got the wrong end of the stick, but how or why, he had no idea.)

In any case, he was startled. He spluttered. He vented. He blushed, and that caused even more embarrassment. (His face, tanned from many years of outdoor living, still gave him away easy. When he was a child, his mother could always tell when he lied, because his face always turned red.)

His voice was slight louder than it ought to be, as he hurriedly said that he had no idea what any of this meant.

“I am not implying anything,” he finished.

“Nay, you are saying it!” Legolas laughed, and so did Éomer, after a while.

They were drawing closer together, and Éomer spared a thought to the door. Discretion, and all that. As quick as thought, he bolted it and made his way back to Legolas. Legolas seemed to be studying carved wooden posts with admirable concentration. Éomer swallowed, and had the uncomfortable realization that his heart had somehow relocated to his thoat.

The silence between them hung in the air, awkward as anything he had ever had to endure.

Éomer was at a loss.

Legolas' eyebrows quirked up. “I am used to some love-talk, you know, before getting down to it. Most people tell me now how uncommonly fair I am. Or perhaps how their hearts leapt, the first time they clapped eyes on me.”

“Does Aragorn tell you such things?”

Éomer could have hit himself asking such a idiotic thing. It was as if he didn't want this. _No, you great fool,_ hissed a part of his brain, _you want this very much._

Legolas gave him a chilly smile.

“No, not at all. He has enough suitors as it is. We are merely friends.”

Éomer shifted uncomfortably, not trusting himself to speak, to say that it did not seem that he Prince of Mirkwood and Isildur's Heir were _merely_ friends.

“I am sorry. Your hair --” and here, Éomer reached for the elf's bright locks, and to his surprise, Legolas did not move away.

A blunt finger curled around around an pale braid.

“Your hair is very nice.”

A sigh, closer now, tickled his ear, the elf's warm breath fluttered on his cheek.

“That will have to do.”

* * * 

 

Afterwards, Éomer could not remember much of what happened – a trick that had more to do with the amout of wine he had drunk and less to do with any sort of Elvish magic. They conducted their explorations in almost absolute silence and with elaborate caution. The presence of many others, all crowded in relatively small space, and only wall away, was always in their minds.

But that was in the very _back_ of their minds, the part not wholly absorbed with the feel of skin against skin, of mouths warm and wet, and of strong and clever fingers...

If anyone would have told him before – that in few day's time he would be thrusting his spear - well, no, his cock – _call a spade a spade_ – into the the mouth of a well-liked and well-respected (albeit a temporary) member of society, a veteran of Helm's Deep, no less...

If anyone had told him that but few days ago, of course, in the time it would taken to say it, both of them would have been killed by orcs. No doubt.

A few days ago, all had been war. And in a few days hence, all would be war again.

Somehow, the threat of imminent death made him feel that much more alive, as his blood thrummed through his furiously beating heart and through his veins and down and still further down.

He took a handful of that wonderful hair and pulled it back - none too gently – just to see those odd blue eyes (darkened now) blaze at him.  
That mouth...  
And oh.  
Oh.  
Oh.  
Valar be praised!

 

* * * 

 

 _But still, there's a difference between the wide open plains and the deep forests,_ Éomer mused as he fell asleep. He felt only vaguely troubled. True, the whole thing was not very fair to poor Legolas.

Alas, his mortal body could take only so much. After all, it had been very long and tiring day...  
 _Where am I trying to go with this? Forests. Plains. Grass the color of Legolas' hair._

He woke up later to the rustling of clothes. Legolas looked up, a guilty expression flitting across his face. He hadn't meant to wake up his lover as he crept out the door.

“I hope you don't mind,” he said in a low voice, “But I am needed elsewhere.”

Éomer blinked, trying to push the sleep from his eyes.

“It is no matter. The Rohirrim rarely need need comfort after the deed.”

Legolas smiled. _Another joke._

“They are a valiant lot, the Rohirrim.”

“Indeed. And they never forget anyone who has given them a good turn.”

There was a little pause, as Éomer thought of something further to say.

“When we do this again, I promise to be more attentive to you...” He hated the question that came through in his tone– _shall we do this again?_

But it was swiftly answered, with a kiss and quiet yes.

Éomer went back to sleep, and dreamt of the fine qualities of Elvish hair. And better understanding between Elves and Men.


End file.
